Welcome to the 60s! (10K RR)

It had been over two weeks since my 60th birthday, and all systems were go. Receding hairline? Check. Receding gumline? Check. Heartburn? Check. Creaky hips? Check. Weakening vision? Check. Time to get out and race!

Having missed Surf City's PR hit parade, I was 2 1/2 months removed from my last race, and needed to bust loose from an endless cycle of maintenance runs. There had been only one interval workout and nothing over 10 miles at a time since early December. And looking over the local racing schedule, I saw two decent possibilities for last weekend. One was a trail run in Orange County with chili served at the end. But it would have been a long schlep from Pasadena, and chili tastes better when it's chilly--which it wasn't. Besides, I'm running a trail Pikermi in March and didn't want to get into a rut. The other choice was the Race on the Base 10K, which is run on military airfield runways at the Joint Forces Training Center in Los Alamitos. I'd run it twice before and medaled both times. The course is flatter than my pumpkin pancakes, and fast as long as the wind's not blowing. They also give out superior tech shirts and dog tag-shaped medals. Sold! Besides, I had Dr. Sheehan in my head.

A few weeks ago, Running Buddy Mark had loaned me The Essential Sheehan, and I've been working through it whenever I can pry myself away from work, taxes, the Winter Olympics and Downton Abbey. In doing so, I've been struck by a couple of things. One is that, for such a philosophical dude, George Sheehan was alarmingly fast, putting my own race times to shame when he was my age. The other is that he essentially raced himself into racing shape by seeking out events virtually every weekend. And in the process, he apparently turned from a gentle soul into a ferocious competitor. Now it wouldn't be practical, or even fun, to race every single weekend. But why not use a fast 10K to jumpstart my running past the maintenance level?

Everything was looking good before the event, from favorable weather to a good warmup, when I had my first racing senior moment. As I took off my sweatpants and reached down to put my car key in my pocket, I realized that I had put my shorts on backwards, with the Asics logo just below my tush. So this is how it starts, I thought. I had just enough time to stand in a port-a-potty line and then turn things around before they sang the National Anthem. And by then, I couldn't work my way forward to a very good position in the corral. This, as it turned out, may have worked to my advantage later.

It took a fair amount of broken-field running before I could feint and dodge my way into the clear, and I was a mile in before working my way down to a 7:40 pace. This wasn't a problem, though. I like to start conservatively--Running Buddy Mark calls it "sneaking up on a PR"--even though a PR wasn't very likely at this point in the year. Nevertheless, I added 7:33 and 7:32 splits down the wide, endless runways, and with a 23:27 at the 5K point was not too far off my best. But on the 4th mile, the gears began to grind a little. I began struggling to maintain pace, and started getting those well, it's going to be a really good workout, at least thoughts when Opportunity dropped a gift onto my radar.

He was about 50 yards ahead of me, wearing a yellow shirt and gloves. He had a short, gray beard and was, by all appearances, around my age. I could have been looking at another version of myself. Now I tend to be clock-focused and rarely pay much attention to the other runners in a race. But this guy seemed to be coming back to me, and I surmised that he could be the only one standing between me and an age-group win. Perhaps inevitably, the thought formed: What would Sheehan do? Obviously, Sheehan would have run the guy down like a mad cheetah sniffing out a wounded antelope. Sheehan also loved to write about the concept of "play," and how important it is to running. Therefore, my mission was clear: it was time to play Catch the Geezer.

Unfortunately, the Geezer didn't give up the ghost very easily. I was gaining on him, but at about the same rate the Colorado River carved out the Grand Canyon. I huffed and I puffed: must...raise...lactate...threshold. By the 5-mile mark he was still ten yards ahead of me on my right as we went into the course's final big turn.

Catch that geezer!

Finally, with about .9 to go, I pulled up on his left shoulder. Seeing me for probably the first time, he put on a little surge, but clearly didn't have another gear at that point. Sensing that I had the advantage, I patiently stayed with him until he finally faded back and out of view with about .6 to go.

At this point I was just counting the tenths of a mile until the finish. We merged with the 5K field near our common finish line (they had started a little behind us), and I let myself get swept along in the sea of runners. By now, I realized that I had sped up nicely and would probably end up with a respectable race. But when the finish banner loomed up ahead, The Garminator told me we still had over a tenth of a mile to go. Was there a separate, earlier finish for the 5Kers? Are we really there already? And then, as I pondered the question, I saw a yellow streak fly by, this time on my left. I didn't even have time to react. Well, there goes my AG win, I thought. But I saw that the finish line was real, as the runners were surrounded by volunteers with medals and water bottles, so I stopped The Garminator as I crossed. It read 46:09. If the time was genuine, it was a 16-second PR. But it also read 6.09 miles, and I've always assumed that my Garmin is a model of accuracy.

After surrendering my timing chip, I walked down the line and saw Yellow Shirt waiting for me with his gloved hand outstretched. "Nice race," I said, shaking it. "I owe the last two miles to you."

"I owe the last mile to you," he replied. "And if you don't mind my asking, how old are you?"

"60."

"Aw!" he winced. "I'm 61. And I'm pretty sure I started ahead of you."

"Well, I guess we'll see what the timing chips say."

It took a while before they posted the results of my 60-64 debut. But when they did, my name was at the top. My competitor had beaten me across the finish line by 4 seconds...but my chip beat his chip by 10. And the official time confirmed a 46:09, which is not only an age-group PR, but a bona fide lifetime PR, since I never ran any 10Ks as a youth.

But what about that 6.09 mile figure? Had my trusty Garminator gone glitchy on me? I tried to think of reasons. Solar flares? Global warming? Mysterious electromagnetic fields from the nearby control tower? Or was it a short course? I even went so far as to look up its certification on the USATF website, and everything seemed to be in order. Anyway, I have this philosophy about race times: as long as the race is respectable, take the official time, assume the distance is right, and be at peace with it. The Race on the Base has been going on for 33 years, and no disreputable event would give out such cool tech shirts and medals with little spinning stars in the middle.

46:09 it was. There was nothing left to do but celebrate with a nap, a big plate of puttanesca, a couple of glasses of wine and a stroll through downtown Sierra Madre on an unseasonably warm night. I wasn't even sore. I guess there's life in these legs yet.

wow! congratulations on a race well run!!! I tend to start out too quickly (all the time) and I have noticed... my good races usually happen when I start in the back.... very good report. looking forward to hearing about more AG wins!

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